


a manly man

by lovelylogans



Series: tumblr fics [12]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Trans!Roman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2020-12-17 18:43:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21059171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: Logan was not the one who could spot Roman’s lowering mood without fail; that dubious honor went to Patton, with Virgil as a close second. But Logan had practiced learning the warning signs, and had a constantly updating list amongst his notes.The most obvious one would always be Roman’s hair. On bad days, Roman’s hair looked more like Virgil’s than his usual style; tangled, and something for him to hide under, and bangs flopping into his eyes. On worse days, Roman’s hair would be styled within an inch of its life, perfect and without a hair out of place. Of course, Roman’s hair was meticulous on good days, but on bad days it was different: obvious that Roman had invested time into it, hands floating up to make sure not a strand was out of place, no knots forming.It is the most obvious, visible sign, and the one Logan tunes into first that morning when Roman enters the kitchen.





	a manly man

**Author's Note:**

> nicolethequeenofdarkness asked: Could you do a human au where Roman is trans and has a day with EXTREME dysphoria and the others are worried so they come in his room to see him shirtless in a red and gold sports bra absolutely DESTROYING his punching bag, and he sees them and says(after punching the bag really hard) "I am still a man, a manly man,a man who is manly" and Logan just smiles and says, "and don't you forget it" LAMP please?
> 
> author note: i’m a cis girl and i’ve never really had to deal with gender dysphoria, though i am familiar with being uncomfortable with my body. so i wrote this from the perspective of an outsider (logan) and just… keep in mind that i am not trans so i don’t really know the experience. anyways! on with the fic!

Logan was not the one who could spot Roman’s lowering mood without fail; that dubious honor went to Patton, with Virgil as a close second. But Logan had practiced learning the warning signs, and had a constantly updating list amongst his notes.

The most obvious one would always be Roman’s hair. On bad days, Roman’s hair looked more like Virgil’s than his usual style; tangled, and something for him to hide under, and bangs flopping into his eyes. On worse days, Roman’s hair would be styled within an inch of its life, perfect and without a hair out of place. Of course, Roman’s hair was meticulous on good days, but on bad days it was different: obvious that Roman had invested time into it, hands floating up to make sure not a strand was out of place, no knots forming. 

It is the most obvious, visible sign, and the one Logan tunes into first that morning when Roman enters the kitchen. Logan can see a distinct, cautious curl. Roman has used pomade in his hair. 

“Hello, Roman,” Logan said, taking a sip of coffee and priding himself on his neutral tone. “Did you sleep well?”

The pause Roman has before responding is another warning sign, and Logan scratches his nail over a chip in the porcelain of his mug, rubbing his finger again the rough sensation.

“A bit of a coffee morning, but it happens, I suppose,” Roman said grandly, and Logan thinks to his notes: _picking his words more carefully._

“Mm,” Logan said, neutral, and takes notice of what Roman is wearing. White, gold, red. Comfort colors. His signatures, of course, but these are more formal and stylish than what Roman would usually wear for his day’s schedule. 

“How was your shift last night?” Roman asked, smiling, and Logan let himself simply talk about his upcoming classes, the homework he had to complete, and at last Roman dropped a kiss to his cheek, and floated carefully out of the room before Logan could ask him anything else. He only realized when the sound of Roman’s footsteps faded that he had been distracted.

He carefully unlocked his phone and sent identical texts to Virgil and Patton: _Keep an eye on Roman today._

_which signs?_ Virgil texted back almost immediately, because Virgil understood how Logan classified emotion differently than the other two did, and Logan sent back _Pomade in hair, formal clothes, more cautious while speaking._ A pause, and then he added, _He didn’t talk about himself at all at breakfast._

_fuck ok_, Virgil sent back, and _pat’s gonna “surprise” him with lunch back at the apartment around noon, you free?_

Logan’s already texting back a regretful negative—he has a lunch meeting with his thesis advisor that he really can’t miss—which Virgil accepts, then goes radio silent, probably relaying all of this to Patton. 

In the same way that there were tried and true methods of spotting Roman’s bad days, there were tried and true methods of cheering him up, each of them with their own variations. 

Patton had a variety of methods; big group lunches, lots of long hugs, offers of heartfelt conversations and a ready-to-listen ear, Disney movie marathons and blanket forts. Patton was the best at making Roman, no, all of them, feel safe in their home and in their own skin; Patton was the one who could settle him the easiest.

Logan would usually pull Roman aside with an innocent question about Pablo Neruda or Lucie Brock-Broido or whichever poet they had both read recently. They would fall into obsessive conversations about syntax and diction and voice, as Logan was primary at arguing Roman out of his own head, until Roman was focused on nothing other than slant rhyme, or why Logan was apparently _wrong about this particular use of symbolism, really, Logan, it’s all about_— 

Virgil would, depending on the day, either poke Roman into a squabble on days where he was furious and antsy, or send Roman repeated funny videos or Disney theories until Virgil could, essentially, sit on Roman and distract his dysphoria into submission.

It depended on what Roman needed. And Roman had gotten only slightly better about telling them which of them he needed, at any given moment, but the key word in that sentence was _slightly._ For so many days, like today, they needed to coax him out of it, because Roman’s default state was to paste a blinding smile on his face and disarm everyone around him with how very charming he could be, with no hint of how horribly he was feeling. 

At first, it had confused Logan, a little, that they had to coax him at all; _surely if he doesn’t want to be bothered, we shouldn’t bother him,_ Logan had asked Patton once, when they were all newly friends, not even romantically involved yet, not even _living_ together yet. 

_Some days he’ll need that,_ Patton had said, _but some days, it’s exhausting to keep pretending you’re fine when you feel like you’re drowning. And a lot of the times, we just need to show him that we’re there for him, even if he doesn’t want to talk about it. The gesture of support is the important thing. It’s up to him if he wants to take us up on it or not. And that’s the important part: it’s up to **him.** Not us._

Logan had to fight the urge to check his phone during his lunch meeting with his advisor. He could feel it buzz against his thigh, and his fingers twitched with the urge to pick up his phone, turn it over, read what Patton and Virgil were reporting to him. His chicken sandwich was dry and unappetizing in his mouth when Logan was too busy thinking about Patton’s comfort foods he’d be making for Roman, casual as anything: grilled cheese and tomato soup, because it was cold outside.

As soon as his advisor left for a bathroom break, Logan fished out his phone, scrolling feverishly through his texts, and let out a soft breath at the key words: _upset,_ was one. _Stormed off,_ another. _Give him some space._

Logan felt his lips pinch tigh together, and sent back, _As soon as I’m done with this lunch, we’re going to find him._

Patton texted back with a variety of encouraging emojis, and Logan only sent back the address of the tiny café his advisor had selected.

During the lunch meeting, he cannot help but only give half his attention to his thesis (ahead of schedule, ahead of the deadline, _keep it up at this rate, Logan, but I wanted to talk with you about where you take the argument on page seven_—_)_ because the other half was trying to construct what might have happened while he had not been present. 

Had Patton tried opening with casual open arms? It wasn’t often (three of the last twenty dysphoric days, approximately a 23% likelihood when factoring in all known dysphoric days throughout Logan’s history of knowing him, a rapid decrease in the percentage since they’d initiated their relationship) that Roman outright refused physical reassurance; cheek kisses and hugs were Patton’s usual fare, and Virgil tended to worm into Roman’s space, catlike, and Logan usually allowed Roman to kick his feet into his lap so Logan could rub absentminded circles with his thumbs against his bony ankles. 

Had Virgil tried to steer Roman towards obscure Disney theories? Had Roman tried to act okay, like he had in the morning, or had his face screwed up and he’d abruptly tossed down his spoon and grabbed his coat and left without a word? Had he snapped at them, wailed at them, maybe, and left in a hurry once he’d realized what he’d said? Logan was scratching his thumbnail aggressively into the wood of the table, half-expecting to wear a groove into it by the end of the lunch. 

_It is logical to worry,_ Logan told himself, _it is logical to worry. He is your boyfriend, and it is logical to worry about his well-being. You are not being unreasonable. You are not overreacting. You are allowed to have these reactions. It is logical to worry about the people you love. _

The words are half in Patton’s voice, and Logan cannot help but think of the way Patton twists his fingers together when he’s worried, the way Virgil gnaws at his lips or his nails, and he cannot help but imagine Patton with a white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel and Virgil hunched low in his seat as they drove to the café.

As soon as his advisor thanks him for his time, Logan is abruptly dropping a twenty on the table and scrambling to pick up his backpack, not stopping to wait for change, and swept out of the restaurant so swiftly he nearly knocked his water glass off the table with his backpack, but he didn’t particularly care, eyes scanning the lot for Patton’s beat-up, old, blue sedan.

_Where, where, where, where—**there.**_

The smiley-face sticker on Patton’s bumper. Logan walked hurriedly towards it, and, yes, Patton and Virgil were sitting in the car just as he imagined—Patton, whiteknuckling the wheel even as he was parked, Virgil, slouched as far as he could go.

“Have you checked anywhere?” Logan asked, voice only slightly calm.

“No one at the stage has seen him, and no one at the rehearsal rooms has either,” Patton reported, and Logan tried not to curse. Those were the two most likely options. From there, they would move into conjecture, and—Logan flattened his hands on the console, leaning forwards.

“How upset was he?” Logan asked. “Did he… say anything?”

“In and out,” Patton said, hushed. “Dropped something off in his room, grabbed a sandwich, headed right back out again. Didn’t stop to talk.”

“Bag,” Virgil muttered, hand in front of his mouth as he gnawed at his thumbnail. “Grabbed a bag.”

“Which bag,” Logan asked, head swiveling towards him, and Virgil shrugged, an up-down of his shoulders. “Patton? Did you see?”

“It would have been little,” Patton said, frowning, and Logan took a breath.

“His theater bags have too many clothes in them, they’re the big ones,” Logan said, trying to recall what he knew of Roman’s minimal organization system. “A little bag? What would Roman do with a…” Something clicked.

“What shoes was he wearing?” Logan asked, looking between Patton and Virgil, who both looked at each other, and then Logan.

“They squeaked,” Virgil provided. “When he turned to leave. They squeaked.”

“Sneakers,” Logan said, nodding. “Okay. So—“

“The gym,” Patton said, already putting the car in reverse. “He’s at the gym.”

Once they turned onto the road, Patton then proceeded to hit the gas like it has said something _very_ rude about his mother, and Logan hastily buckled his seatbelt, hoping that they would be fortunate enough to avoid any cop lying in wait. 

They split, as soon as they get to the gym; Patton goes to the weights room, Virgil, cardio, and Logan to trawl the private rooms on the lowest level. All three of them are clenching their phones. 

It barely takes Logan much time before he heard a familiar, angry clash of music.

_[WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I’D LOSE MY MIND FOR YOU?!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOsg2w-l59U)_ the singer screamed with a burst of drums and guitar, barely muffled by the walls of the room. Logan peeked hesitantly in the door’s window. 

Yes, that’s the long, familiar line of Roman’s spine, his back sweating, skin covered by a red and gold sports bra—Logan can sigh in relief that he isn’t working out with his binder on, which he’d done before, and Logan had lectured him semi-hysterically about.

_boxing room 4,_ he sent hastily to Patton and Virgil, before he knocked hesitantly on the door.

A brief pause in Roman’s rhythm, before he resumed, and Logan carefully opened the door.

“What gave me away this time?” Roman snorted derisively, fist driving into the bag again, again, again. He still hadn’t turned back to look at Logan.

“Sneakers,” Logan admitted, closing the door behind him, cutting off the flow of music into the hallway. Roman had wrapped his hands, too, and his gloves were on, and Logan was thankful that he’d at least paused to do that, lest they be dealing with split and bruised knuckles for a week and a half. “Virgil heard squeaking, Patton saw the bag.”

_Thud, thud, thud._

“Do you want me to leave?” Logan asked Roman’s back. “Would you prefer one of the others?”

_Thud, thud, thud._ “I really don’t want to hear about how I’m feeling is valid right now, thanks.”

“It is,” Logan began, leaning against the wall, and continued over the thudding, “but it’s important to keep in mind that emotions aren’t reliable, either. To some extent, our minds try to trick us.”

A pause, and Roman’s hand caught the bag when he mixed up the rhythm, and Logan continued.

“I usually only talk cognitive distortions with Virgil, but I can keep talking about them now, if you’d like.”

A nod, and Roman turned his attention back to the bag.

“Okay,” Logan said, and took a moment to rephrase the explanations he’d given to Virgil about anxiety, to frame them in the form of Roman and dysphoria; it didn’t take particularly much shuffling. _Control fallacies, personalization, catastrophizing, jumping to conclusions, global labeling. External vs. internal control, not everything is directly related to what you do and comparison is not helpful; people often magnify the importance of events that are relatively insignificant; you are not able to determine what someone else is feeling towards you unless they explicitly tell you so; mislabling often involves events that are emotionally loaded and there is often an error of context._

At some point, when Logan was in the middle of talking about catastrophizing, the door opened again, Patton and Virgil peeking in before carefully stepping in, Patton squeezing Logan’s shoulder encouragingly.

“Was that helpful?” Logan asked, once his lecture wound down, and Roman punched the bag.

“I am a man,” he said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than trying to convince them. “A manly man. A man who is manly.”

At last, Roman turned his head over his shoulder, glancing at Logan for the first time, who tried his best to give his best facsimilie of Patton’s reassuring smile.

“And don’t you forget it.”


End file.
